


Light my Fire

by ravenbringslight



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Anal Sex, Come as Lube, Humor, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Sex Pollen, Shameless Smut, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:54:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22238206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenbringslight/pseuds/ravenbringslight
Summary: It’s been two months since Geralt shouted at Jaskier on top of a mountain.Jaskier hasn’t written a single song since then.And then, one night, the witcher shows up at his fire.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 38
Kudos: 1893
Collections: Geralt is Sorry





	Light my Fire

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in one sitting and couldn't bring myself to reread it we die like men

Here’s the thing.

Jaskier had always known that if push came to shove in a fight for Geralt’s affections, Yennefer would win every time. He’d made peace with that. He was a bard, and he liked to think that if there was one thing he understood, it was falling in love—hearts can’t be reasoned with, they just do what they do, and they drag everyone else along for the ride.

The problem is that Jaskier had always thought that he was in the carriage as well. Him and Yen and Geralt, all riding together. And sure, sometimes he had to ride on top of the carriage instead of inside it, but the point is that he was _there_ , and also maybe that he needs to work on his metaphors a little, because as far as poetry goes carriages are not exactly the height of romance.

But anyway. He’s not there now. Yen had leapt clear out of the thing while it was still going, and Geralt had thrown Jaskier out into the road as well in a fit of pique, and that was that.

It’s not even like Jaskier had ever been _in_ in the carriage anyway. Maybe more like the driver. Or the footman. Listening in on the sounds coming from the inside and—

Ok, still a terrible metaphor, but the _point_ (oh the point) is that Jaskier is now utterly carriageless, Geralt-less, on foot, alone, trudging forlornly through the dirt, feeling a little empty and a little sad and a little foolish. And, weirdly, a little old; Geralt and Yen are both old enough to be his great-grandparents, and yet he, Jaskier, is the one with crowsfeet and the beginnings of the smallest amount of middle-aged middle, and they’re both going to look young and pretty far after he’s feeding the worms that he’s trudging so forlornly over.

Jaskier doesn’t usually mind being maudlin. In fact, he’s made a career out of it, and he welcomes fits of melancholy with the same unholy glee that a child welcomes a sackful of sweets, because it’s impossible to write a good ballad if you’re not prepared to have a good cry while you’re doing it.

But he minds this. Whatever it is has gone beyond maudlin, beyond melancholy, into something deeper; a depth past the makings of a good song and into somewhere that he doesn’t think he’s ever been prodded before. He doesn’t even feel like crying. It’s worrisome.

Anyway. It’s been two months since Geralt shouted at him on top of a mountain.

Jaskier hasn’t written a single song since then, and that’s probably the most worrisome part of all.

*

It happens on a fall afternoon. Jaskier has been in Temeria, hopping along from town to town, singing the old favorites for a bit of coin, a warm meal, a bed. It’s two days between the last town and the next though, and he finds himself setting up a camp in the last rays of the afternoon sun. It had rained all morning before the sun made an appearance, a nasty cold drizzle that pissed out of the sky and into every available crevice (and some crevices that Jaskier could swear the rain invented just for the purpose of getting into). Jaskier’s found some dry-ish deadfall under a massive pine, and he’s rummaging through his bag praying his tinderbox managed to stay dry and that he won’t be forced to be both wet and cold all night, when he startles at the sound of a twig snapping.

“Witcher,” Jaskier says, falling back onto his heels. His heart does something a little funny.

The figure is backlit by the setting sun, but Jaskier would know that profile anywhere.

“Bard,” Geralt says.

He moves out of the glare of the setting sun and his features resolve into the ones Jaskier’s grown so familiar with over the years. Unkempt silver hair, three days of stubble, eyes that could see straight into your soul. He looks tired. Beautiful, because he always is, but haggard.

“You look like shit. Not sleeping again?” Jaskier only lets himself sound a little nasty. His feelings are hurt, damn it.

“No.”

“Well you can go not sleep somewhere else,” Jaskier says. “We wouldn’t want to let me bring any more terrible calamities down on your precious tender head.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, like just his name is supposed to mean something.

“You know my name, well done.”

Geralt sighs and purses his lips. He turns to leave, and Jaskier’s heart does the funny thing again, and Jaskier finds himself opening his big stupid mouth and letting big stupid words fall out of it.

“Don’t go,” he says. “Help me get this fire going.”

Geralt does.

*

Jaskier knows that he talks too much. It’s simultaneously a strength and a weakness, and he’s never really had any hope of curbing his tongue, so he’s tried to cultivate the “strength” part of it and ignore the part where he talks himself into trouble just as often as he talks himself out of it.

But.

Tonight?

Tonight, Geralt is sharing his fire and _hmm_ -ing and bloody well _not apologizing_ and Jaskier finds that for once in his life he simply has no words. He opens his mouth and there’s nothing there to come out, nothing that can actually give shape to the nebulous feelings inside of him, and so he snaps his mouth closed, and glares, and drinks what is frankly too much wine, and waits for a _bloody fucking apology_ in _bloody fucking silence_.

For his part, Geralt at least has the decency to look more and more uncomfortable. He opens his mouth a few times as well, and Jaskier gives him an angry expectant look every time, and Geralt keeps his silence as well.

And it’s all just wonderful, just really fucking superb. And it’s building between them, the silence stacking up on itself, until the air is so full of it, so ready to break, that even one sigh is going to send it shattering into a million pieces.

And then, several things happen at once.

Geralt says “I—”

The fire pops very loudly.

The wood in it shifts, sending a shower of alarmingly violet-colored sparks up into the air.

Both of them faint.

*

Jaskier comes to a moment later. He knows it’s only been a moment, because he dropped his wineskin when he fell, and the wine that’s dribbling out of it hasn’t made a very big puddle yet.

“Errrgh,” he says.

Everything feels a little weird. His head is sloshy, more than the wine can account for, and his vision feels like it’s tracking half a second behind his eyes, and he’s _hot_ , so hot, his clothes are absolutely stifling, and before he knows what he’s doing he’s ripping his clothes in his haste to get them the fuck _off_.

The night air feels blessedly cool against his flushed skin, but the heat hasn’t dissipated.

There’s a grunt from somewhere to Jaskier’s right. Jaskier winds his eyes over to see Geralt doing the same thing he is. The witcher’s armor is in haphazard piles, the laces torn, and Jaskier giggles, because Geralt is going to be pissed when he sees what he’s done to his own armor. The giggle dies in Jaskier’s throat when Geralt pulls his trousers off; he’s standing fully and gloriously nude in front of the fire, the flames playing off the curves of his massive chest, his biceps, his—

Jaskier looks down at himself. He’s fully nude as well, though he doesn’t know if _glorious_ is the word he’d use for it. Pale? No, you can’t be palely nude. That’s not even a word. Fully, scrawnily nude? No—

The heat inside him pulses, and ripples, and pools. First in his chest, almost taking his breath away, then dripping down through his belly straight in a molten line until it settles, throbbing, in his cock. The damnable thing springs to full rock-hard attention with a speed that leaves him slack-jawed.

Geralt grunts again, and Jaskier glances over to see that he’s in the same predicament that Jaskier is.

“Come here,” Geralt growls.

Jaskier whimpers, and goes.

He feels like he’s in another world. He’d passed out in one world, the real one, where Geralt had basically dumped him, and things like _grudges_ and _boundaries_ and _pride_ existed, and woken up in this one, where he doesn’t know the meaning of any of those words, and also Geralt has his tongue halfway down Jaskier’s throat.

They claw and clutch at each other. Geralt gets one massive hand around both of their cocks at the same time. Jaskier whimpers again.

“Oil?” Geralt rasps and Jaskier shudders and flaps his hand vaguely in the direction of his pack. He’s sure he’s got some linseed oil for his lute. That’s probably fine, right? All oil is good oil as far as cocks and holes are concerned, and _holy shit_ they need oil because they’re going to do things involving cocks and holes. Jaskier whimpers a third time. He doesn’t think he knows how to do anything other than whimper anymore.

His whole body is on fire from head to toe. He wants to climb Geralt like a tree. He wants to fuck him. He wants to be fucked by him. He wants to put his cock in every part of Geralt’s body that he can, and then do it again. He wants to eat him alive.

“Get the fuck inside me already,” Jaskier hears himself say.

It turns out that linseed oil is, in fact, fine. It’s better than fine. It’s good. Great, even.

“Fuck,” Geralt says when he bottoms out, and Jaskier would agree, only he’s too full of cock to manage frivolous things like words.

Jaskier wraps both his arms and both his legs around his witcher and throws his head back and cums just from the friction of Geralt’s stomach. He’d be embarrassed that he came so soon, except that Geralt is already doing the same thing, ramming into him only once, twice, before shuddering his load into Jaskier’s clenching hole.

Jaskier whimpers.

Geralt gets his knees under him and levers himself up a little. Jaskier’s still hard. Geralt is too.

“Fuck,” Jaskier says.

The spent laziness that usually accompanies an orgasm is nowhere to be found. Instead of feeling sated, he feels hungrier. Needier. Fuck. He grabs Geralt around the waist with his legs and presses up against him, shifting Geralt inside of him, making them both groan.

“Get _on_ with it,” Jaskier pleads.

Geralt doesn’t need to be told twice. He starts moving again, the way even slicker now with his cum, and Jaskier feels it squelching obscenely, running down his cheeks, ruining his bedroll. Geralt’s cock is no slouch in the girth department, and the stretch is un-fucking-believable, and Jaskier feels so full that he thinks he might choke on it. It’s incredible. He’s so hot, he’s burning up.

Geralt is too. He’s flushed, sweating. His pupils are huge. He buries his face in Jaskier’s neck and scents him like a predator with its prey, and makes a low rumbling noise in his chest that drives Jaskier absolutely insane.

“You like that?” Geralt rasps against his neck. “I can feel you clenching all around me. When I do this—” And here Geralt scents him again, and Jaskier, damn him, clenches.

Geralt gets up on his knees and hauls Jaskier up further onto him.

“Look at you,” Geralt rasps. “Pretty little thing. Do you know how long I’ve wanted to get my hands on you?”

Who knew that all it took to get Geralt to be talkative was to get him into bed?

“What was stopping you?”

Geralt’s brows draw up, and his hips snap forward, and Jaskier moans. He felt that one up into his gut.

“I don’t know,” Geralt says. “Fuck. You moan like a whore.”

“I’m _not_ —”

“I know. I know.”

Jaskier must have some kind of look on his face, because Geralt leans down and kisses him to soothe his feelings.

“Mmf,” Jaskier says, soothed. And then “nngh,” because Geralt’s just lifted one of his legs to change the angle, and he didn’t even know he was that flexible but, wow, he is. And then “ahhh,” because Geralt’s found this amazing spot inside of him that’s making his eyes roll back in his head.

They both cum, again. Geralt gets hold of Jaskier’s cock and that’s him gone over the edge he didn’t see coming, and then Geralt is flopping forward onto him, smearing the mess all around, and filling Jaskier up for a second time.

They collapse next to each other in a sordid, soiled pile, breathing harshly.

Geralt lifts his head just far enough to look down at his cock, which is still standing at proud attention. He lets his head thunk back down with a gusty sigh.

“Me too,” Jaskier says mournfully.

His head is still sloshy. The vision thing isn’t so bad anymore, but maybe only because Geralt’s been right up in his face and he hasn’t had to focus on anything further away than that for the last twenty minutes. He’s still on fucking fire though. It’s crawling under his skin, licking flames moving like a living thing. He can’t stay still. Desire is still burning hot through him. Two times has done nothing but stoke the flames higher.

Jaskier finds himself rolling on top of Geralt. They’re disgusting, his thighs dripping with oil and cum, cum all over both their bellies. He rubs it into Geralt’s skin. Geralt has such a beautiful chest, and Jaskier smears it through the hair there, leans down and bites one of Geralt’s nipples, kneads at his tits.

“Fuck,” Geralt says. “What the fuck is happening?”

“I don’t know,” Jaskier says. He upends the bottle of linseed oil into his palm. There’s enough, he thinks.

Geralt lines them up and then impales himself on Jaskier’s cock and Jaskier thinks he might actually have died at some point during the evening. There is no way that this is happening.

“I’ve been waiting...all night,” Jaskier says. He’s so much more out of breath than Geralt was doing this that it’s embarrassing. It’s not stopping him though. The drag of his cock in and out of Geralt’s body is the most amazing thing he’s ever felt in his life, followed closely by the sight of his cock disappearing and reappearing into and out of Geralt’s ass, itself followed closely by the sounds that are currently coming out of Geralt’s throat. Jaskier’s never heard their like. He’s heard Geralt make all kinds of noises fighting, but never these long shuddery raspy wanton things currently gracing his ears.

“For this?” Geralt says. His huge hands are on Jaskier’s ass, kneading, hauling him in closer with each thrust until Jaskier isn’t certain that Geralt isn’t the one still entirely in control here.

“No. For you...to...apologize...you fucking arse,” Jaskier huffs out.

“I was trying.”

Jaskier grunts in frustration. Geralt’s controlling the angle and the pace more than he is, and it’s driving him to distraction. He wants to let loose and he can’t, and it wrings another whimper out of him.

“Fuck, just turn over,” Jaskier says, pawing at him.

Geralt does, and Jaskier plunges back into him, hard, and they groan together.

“Weren’t trying...very hard,” Jaskier says, snapping his hips. Geralt’s waist looks improbably small under the massive spread of his shoulders, and Jaskier grips it, digging his fingers in. Fuck, there is not an ounce of fat on this man. He’s all muscle and sinew and scars. Jaskier bends down to lick one of the scars on his back and Geralt shudders underneath him.

“Talking’s not my thing,” Geralt says. “I was looking for the words.”

Jaskier pauses, panting, and pushes his sweaty hair out of his eyes. “How about—’oh, I’m sorry Jaskier, I didn’t mean to yell at you for no reason and blame you for things you didn’t do.’ How’s that? There are some words for you.”

“I’m sorry Jaskier, I didn’t mean to yell at you for no reason and blame you for things you didn’t do,” Geralt says.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jaskier huffs, and rams his cock into Geralt so hard the witcher slides forward two inches. “That doesn’t count. That’s cheating.”

Geralt only grunts, and, frustrated, Jaskier fucks into him harder. Geralt starts tugging at his own cock, his back rounded as he hunches into it, and Jaskier lets himself go and just fucks him mindlessly until they’re both grunting with every thrust, and they cum at nearly the same time. He falls over Geralt’s back, transported into whited-out bliss for a few hazy moments.

Geralt manages to get them both down to the bedroll again. Jaskier’s on his stomach, his eyes closed, his face smooshed against the pillow roll. He’s so tired. His muscles are starting to complain. He definitely needs a bath. Maybe food.

“We have to fuck again, don’t we?” Jaskier says.

“Yeah,” Geralt says.

*

Jaskier loses track of how many times they do it. They use the oil up, but apparently the human body can produce more semen that Jaskier ever thought possible, and they just end up using that instead. At one point they simply become too slippery for any proper friction, and they’re forced to wash themselves off, and then Geralt, bless the man, gets the bright idea to use their mouths. 

That might actually be Jaskier’s favorite part of the night—some time in the small hours of the morning, laying down on the bedroll by the fire, lazily sucking each other off for at least an hour. It’s downright meditative. Geralt’s mouth is on him, warm and wet, gentle, unhurried, keeping the bonfire of his insatiable desire banked down to something pleasurable instead of overwhelming—his mouth is on Geralt, licking and suckling and nuzzling, returning the favor. Jaskier’s almost surprised when he cums that time, and a little sad. It had been so nice.

They keep fucking, so they keep feeding the fire. One or two more pieces of wood pops violet, and Jaskier gets a little sloshier each time, and finds the next round particularly urgent. His body can only take so much though, and despite the unending desire to fuck and be fucked, he starts to wear out.

Near dawn, Geralt is spooned up behind Jaskier, lazily pumping in and out of his body, in no particular rush, and Jaskier is melting back into him, content just to lay there and let it happen. He’s completely, utterly worn out, and just grateful that the witcher has more stamina than he does.

Jaskier thinks that this moment might be the first time he’s gotten to appreciate how Geralt _feels_ , really feels, every inch of him, from where their ankles are tangled together all the way up to where Geralt’s chest is plastered against his back, Geralt’s arm possessively around his waist, Geralt’s cock stroking his inner walls, over and over, patiently, slowly. Jaskier tips his head back for a kiss and gets one, and sighs into Geralt’s mouth.

“This is nice,” Jaskier says sleepily.

“Mm.”

Geralt nuzzles at his neck.

“I am, you know,” Geralt says.

“You’re what?” Jaskier says. Everything’s a bit fuzzy around the edges. He’s so tired.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says. “You didn’t deserve the things I said.”

“Mmm. Thank you. Apology accepted.”

Geralt slides out of him slowly, oh so slowly, then back in with a little hitch at the end that makes Jaskier hum happily. He does accept the apology. He’s always been too soft for his own good. 

“The sun’s rising.”

“So it is,” Jaskier agrees.

“When’s the last time we fed the fire?”

Jaskier yawns and seats his bottom more firmly against Geralt’s pelvis. “Ages ago.”

“Hmm.”

A kiss to his shoulder.

“I think it wore off,” Geralt murmurs against his skin. “Do you still feel hot?”

“What did? And no.”

“The spores. Took me a bit to work it out. I was distracted. They were on the firewood. Did you get it from under a sentinel pine?”

“Is that a really big pine tree? Because if so, yes.”

“Fool,” Geralt says, but there’s no heat in it. “There’s a fungus that grows underneath them. Aphrodisiac properties. The fire made the spores disperse.”

“Ahh,” Jaskier says.

“Do you want me to stop?” Geralt says, driving himself home again with one prolonged thrust that makes Jaskier tingle from his toes to the crown of his head.

“Gods, no,” Jaskier says.

Geralt kisses him.

“Good.”

*

They fall asleep still tangled together and sleep half the day. When they finally wake up, Jaskier rolls over and winces. His entire body aches like he’s been dragged along the ground behind Roach for twenty leagues.

“Good morning,” Geralt says from three inches to his left. “Do you mind if I travel with you for awhile?”

A smile spreads over Jaskier’s face. He turns to face his witcher, still smiling.

“Do we get to do any more of what we did last night?”

Geralt’s face looks as close to tender as Jaskier’s ever seen it.

“If you like,” Geralt says.

“I do like. Very much. I like it very much.”

Geralt smiles with one corner of his mouth and kisses him. Jaskier kisses him back, then pulls back with an exaggerated face of disgust.

“If we don’t bathe immediately, I am going to light us both on fire,” Jaskier declares. “We should probably burn this entire bedroll just on principle as well.”

They bathe, and eat, and then Geralt catches Jaskier’s arm as they’re breaking camp and pulls him in and scents him, and Gods, Jaskier doesn’t know if that will _ever_ not make him quiver in helpless delight. He’s back in the carriage, he thinks. Not just the driver this time, or the footman. Geralt is _kissing_ him—he’s definitely along for the ride now. They’re more than friends. They’re...good. They’re really good.

Geralt rides Roach as they head out, and Jaskier walks, and as they amble off down the road he unhooks his lute.

“Please don’t play _Toss a Coin_ ,” Geralt says.

“I’m not going to,” Jaskier says. “I think I’m going to write something new.”

**Author's Note:**

> [www.twitter.com/thunderingraven](https://www.twitter.com/thunderingraven)


End file.
